Dead Reckoning (21 page)

“Let's go,” Hassard said, rapping his coffee cup upside down on a rock to knock the dregs out. “We've got several miles to climb.”

In the dark, Clarence brushed by May as he turned up the trail. He squeezed her cool neck gently in his hand as he passed. And she touched him, too—her open palm pressing against the back of his hand, where she knew he would feel it, her fingers slipping away as he walked on.

“I'll carry the heavy stuff,” Clarence said to Hopewell.

The elder handed the saddlebags to Clarence, then picked up a coil of rope and looped it over his head and one shoulder.

Mary Whitepath fell in behind them, her moccasins treading silently on supple blades of grass.

“Deacon Dee!”

The con man turned to look at James O'Rourke.

“God go with you,” the youth said.

Dee smiled. “Bless you, James.” With his hatchet he chopped a slash mark on an aspen tree—the first in a long line that would lead him back to the gold after today's sunset.

*   *   *

Sister Petra could look down and see last night's camp far below, the light of dawn showing the wisp of smoke rising through the pines. The sun hadn't even risen above the mountains to the east and already she had climbed a half mile. Her muscles were warm, the stiffness from the bed of spruce boughs gone.

Ramon was on her heels. “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“Just looking down on the camp. We must not start too fast. We will have a long way to climb today.” She smiled, for it was a joy to see him this excited about reaching the cross.

“We must not go too slow, either,” he argued. “We don't know what we might run into.”

They had found a game trail not far above their camp, but it had played out quickly, and now they were simply clawing their way up the steep slope, crawling under low limbs, over deadfalls and boulders. They couldn't see Notch Mountain for the trees, but knew it loomed over them, reaching high above the timber.

They worked upward for an hour, finally arriving at a minor ridge that branched off the main divide like a rib from a backbone. Working their way along the top of the ridge, they could move with relative ease among the trees, until they came to the broad flank of the mountain, where they had to negotiate steep grades again.

“Which way should we go?” Ramon asked.

Petra put her hands on her hips and saw her breath form a cloud in front of her. It was a wonderful day, sunny and warming. “The old man yesterday said to cross the Notch Mountain divide south of its summit. I think if we turn northward here and work our way gradually up the mountain as we go, we should come out above timber in about the right place.”

Ramon nodded, took the lead. He didn't know why, but he felt like climbing today. His legs almost ached to be used. “Come on,” he said.

Coming around a forested bluff some time later, Ramon stopped and could only stare as Petra came to his side. An avalanche had swept down the mountainside in front of him, carrying trees and rocks downward in what must have been an incredible spectacle as it occurred. Now it was nothing more than an ugly scar to cross, the footing treacherous for some sixty yards.

“I suppose we could climb and go over it,” Petra said.

Ramon looked up the old avalanche. It was a long way in the wrong direction. “Look,” he said pointing to a place not far above. “There's a path that some mountain sheep or something has been using.”

Petra sounded nervous. “Yes, but could we?” One misplaced step could send either of them sliding hundreds of feet down the loose slope.

“One step at a time,” Ramon said.

He climbed to the path the wild sheep had made and stepped onto it, testing every footfall for security. Stride by stride, he began crossing the landslide, pausing only once in the middle as a flash of something below caught his eye. He looked far downward and saw the sun reflecting in a beaver pond maybe two miles away. The avalanche had cleared a swath down through the timber, opening an incredible vista.

“Gracias a Dios,”
he muttered, taking in the eagle's view. Turning, he saw a look of wild terror in Sister Petra's eyes and knew he had better not ask her to look down. He moved steadily across the rest of the landslide, waiting for her on safe ground, offering his hand.

They spoke nothing, but moved on, ever upward, across the steep forested face of the mountain. Coming around another huge wrinkle in the topography, they heard water rushing not far away. As they got nearer, it grew to a roar, and soon they found the stream thundering over a precipice in a white froth.

They had to climb to get to the top of the waterfall, where slick stepping stones led them across the torrent of snowmelt. Ramon went first, leaping from one rock to the next with perfect balance. When he turned, he saw Petra still waiting across the stream.

“Come on!” he cried.

She answered, but the sound of the cascade swallowed her words. Uncertainly, she started, looking long at each successive step, gathering herself for the long stride repeatedly before chancing it. On the fifth stone, her foot slipped. The water was knee deep, cold, and swift enough to take her foot out from under her.

Ramon was in the stream in an instant, splashing toward the little nun, even though the current lacked the force to sweep her far toward the brink of the waterfall. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her across the stream.

“I'm all right,” she said. She sat down at the water's edge and caught her breath. “I didn't know it would be this hard. We've crossed nothing like this.” Her eyes, for the first time since leaving Guajolote, showed her doubts.

Ramon rose and stepped back, aghast.
“Oiga,”
he ordered. “Listen to me, Sister Petra. Day after day I have followed you north looking for this cross. Now we are only a couple of miles away, and you are losing your nerve?”

“I haven't lost my nerve,” she snapped. “I just didn't know it would get this dangerous. “I'm afraid one of us is going to fall off this mountain.”

“Well, it's not going to be me,” he said. “I'm going to find that cross. I'm going to see something that only a handful of people have ever seen. Do you want me to tell you about it, or do you want to come with me?”

Petra gritted her teeth as she rose. Something had come over this boy. How much he had changed since Guajolote. Giving orders now!
“Listo,”
she said. “I am ready,” and the determination in her eyes convinced Ramon.

They trudged on at a steady grind, their legs falling into a slow rhythm. Taking a severe angle up the mountain, they covered ground more slowly, but gained altitude faster. Patches of snow began to appear in shady places, the patches growing larger as they ascended. It took thousands of wordless steps, their path wending among many obstacles of stone and wood, before they reached the timberline.

It came suddenly, the bright openness glaring down at them after the shadows of the forest. Petra looked for a path, but, of course, there was none. Ahead lay fields of snow, ancient rock slides.

“Is this Notch Mountain?” Ramon said. “Where is the notch?”

“We can't see it from here. We are too close to it. It all looks different when you are upon it.”

It was cooler up here, but the sun was shining brightly, and the climb had kept them warm.

“It should be easier now,” Ramon suggested. “No more dead trees to climb over.”

“Yes,” she answered. “But there will be more snow. We are going to have to go through it in some places. We still have a mile to climb, maybe two.”

He took some dried meat from his coat pocket and began to chew on it as he led the way up the slippery alpine tundra. He stepped in a mushy spot where melted snow had seeped and felt the cold water almost immediately on his toes. His boots were worn out from the long journey. Petra's were in better shape, and they were high-topped lace-up boots. Ramon's were low, wide-mouthed boots. They would not serve him well if he had to cross fields of snow.

Petra looked northward and saw white clouds on some far-distant range. “I hope the clouds don't gather here. It would obscure the cross.”

“You worry too much. We are almost there. What could happen now?” But Ramon was worried, too. Not about whether they would find the cross, but about what would happen then. Did she really think they would find money lying around on the rocks? This trip was meant to save Guajolote. Did she remember that? How was this Snowy Cross going to save a tiny village hundreds of miles away? Petra was in for a disappointment. That was all there was to it. And she was going to be hell to live with all the way home.

Twenty-seven

This was the way Frank had done it. Years ago, when Carrol was the outlaw on the run, Frank had caught up to him unexpectedly at a cabin in the San Juan Mountains. Carrol had stolen a couple of dozen cattle, shooting and wounding a cowboy who had given chase. He knew the law—probably his own brother—would trail him, so he had ridden like the devil's own jockey for Arizona, stealing fresh mounts along the way.

He had come to the abandoned cabin in Ute country, probably the former home of some long-dead fur trapper. He had chanced a few hours of sleep there, knowing that no one could have ridden harder than he had.

And yet, not three hours later, Frank Moncrief burst into the cabin and clubbed his surprised brother over the head with the barrel of a navy Colt. It was weeks later that Frank explained how he had done it. They were camped by the Platte River in South Park, on the road to the state penitentiary in Cañon City. The same place where Frank would later die at the hands of Dee Hassard.

“Bet you wonder how I caught up to you in the San Juans, don't you?” Frank had said, the gurgles of the Platte keeping time with the cracklings of the fire.

Carrol had wondered, all right. There was no way any man could have ridden harder than he had after stealing those cattle and shooting that cowboy. But he wasn't going to give Frank the satisfaction of asking how.

“You were slippin' away from me,” Frank admitted. “I was ridin' hard, but I had to trail you, and that slowed me down. Every time I'd get to where you had stole a fresh horse, I was a little further behind you. I had to try somethin'.

“So when I came to that ranch you stole your last horse from, I borrowed six fresh mounts. I tied 'em in a string, head to tail, rode the lead horse till he was near dead, then switched to the next one back. Every time I did that, I'd leave the jaded horse where I'd finished with him and take the fresher horses on. I knew you were headin' for Arizona, so I just rode. Didn't worry about trailin' you anymore. I was lucky to find that cabin. Spotted the smoke from the chimney. You never should have lit that fire.”

Carrol had spat on the ground between himself and his brother and said, “I'll be damned if you'll catch me next time.”

“Let me promise you somethin', brother,” Frank had replied, the cold glare of determination filling his eyes. “When you get out of prison, if you decide to step back on that outlaw trail, I don't care if I have to kill every horse in Colorado. I will ride you down again. If you gallop all the way to South America, I will dog you like a hound on a damned coyote.”

“You do, and I'll kill you,” Carrol said, and he had meant it.

Thank God it hadn't come to that. He had found a new way, in prison of all places. He had learned to place Frank in higher regard than any man he knew. But now Frank was dead, and he was closing fast on his killer, Dee Hassard.

He was glad now that he knew about the string of horses that Frank had used to catch him years ago. The method was working well here, because the pilgrims left such a plain trail. Carrol could read it at a gallop. It was dangerous, though. Six galloping horses in a string was a wreck looking for a place to happen, and he had been happy just to drop the first tired horse from the head of the string ten miles out of Frisco.

He was down to two horses now, having lathered four mounts to near exhaustion. The last two were hardly fresh. They had run all the way from Frisco, yet they had carried no man upon their backs, felt no cinch tighten around their barrels. Each horse would carry him about five miles before tiring. If he didn't overtake the pilgrims by then, Hassard was as good as gone.

It was odd that Frank had used any horse this hard, for Frank had always believed in treating his mounts with gentleness, though he knew how to get the most out of them. Carrol was only now realizing how desperate Frank must have been on that ride, how much he must have hated hunting down his own brother: a shame and a duty in one courageous act.

The parson changed his saddle to the last horse on the banks of the Eagle River. He hadn't been saddle sore in years, but this wild ride had chafed layers of hide off his inner thighs and pounded his knees to aching mush. He mounted and rode in a long lope upstream. The horse had some gallop left in him, but Carrol decided to ride for distance instead of speed. He might get ten miles out of this horse at a lope.

As it turned out, he needed only six. He was following the wide trail trampled by the pilgrims, coming to the top of an incline, when he heard a voice and saw an armed man step into the path ahead of him.

“You stop!” the man demanded.

Carrol reined in the heaving mount and took a moment to size up the man in the trail. He appeared to an Indian, but wore the clothing of a white man, braids falling over his lapels. The preacher got down and gave his exhausted mount some slack in the saddle cinch. “Who are you, friend?” he said.

“Dan Feather. You?”

“I am the Reverend Carrol Moncrief. I'm looking for the Church of the Weeping Virgin.”

Dan lowered his rifle. “Moncrief? Okay, you come on in.” He motioned up the trail with his muzzle.

“Where is Dee Hassard?” the parson asked, leading his horse. Pain stabbed both knees after the hard ride, and walking felt awkward.